A Subtle Proposition
by LovelyLittleFreckle
Summary: A Lizzington prompt given to me by the lovely and talented figure-of-dismay. I won't say what it is since it will give it away :) . A fluffy, two-parter just-this-side of believable without being OOC. Please feel free to leave reviews!


It hadn't started out this way. When it began, so informally and months ago, she had made excuses to find herself on his doorstep: work, cases, advice. And then in the way that all comfortable relationships do, it became an arrangement that didn't require pretense or need. She remembered the smug look on his face on the final evening that she had stepped over his threshold offering an explanation – something about needing a wine recommendation. It was that night that the pleasantries turned into something subtly more affectionate. It was in the restrained but comforting touch on the small of her back as she left, the way he clutched her hand as she walked away letting his fingers linger on hers. And then, on her increasingly frequent visits, she would notice small changes – he kept a better stock of her favorite tea, purchased her a pair of slippers that he kept by the door. She found herself tidying up his counters and turning on his dishwasher when she would put away their mugs. The touches of domesticity and even outward affection were not lost on her, but they were easily shrugged away as a growing, platonic comfort to which she was simply no longer accustomed.

Gradually she had learned more about Raymond… not Reddington, not Red… Raymond: the actual person, not the persona. It cast a new light on their professional relationship to be sure, but not anything altogether strange. She would watch him stride around the Post Office and for tiny stolen moments her mind would wander to a story he'd told her weeks before about the leg brace he wore when he was ten. She would mention in passing over a cup of tea that a floral note reminded her of lavender, only to find a dried sprig of it on her desk the next morning. Liz was content to believe that these were things that friends did for each other; it had been so long since she truly had a friend.

She noticed in the most peculiar ways that their work had become easier – not in content but in execution. It manifested itself in small ways at first, like finding herself picking up his speech patterns, becoming a bit lighter on her feet under pressure, anticipating his choice of words. They would catch each other's eyes more often, communicating briefly and simply without realizing. They were small changes that she hoped were too subtle to be noticed. Until of course they were. And of course by Aram.

"Hey where did you find those gloves?" Aram asked, amid Monday morning small talk.

"At a hat shop actually," Liz said, taking them from her pocket and handing them to Aram for a closer look.

"Which one, I'm in the market for a new pair," he asked casually.

"Yeah, JJ's – it's on Fifth have you heard of it?"

"I have," he said, turning the gloves over in his hands thoughtfully before handing them back. "Red's chip registered there the other day." A small lift of his eyebrows gave him away.

"Well, the man knows fine leather goods I guess," she said, putting the gloves back in her pocket. But in the pause in conversation there was a fog of innuendo… one that she had been avoiding but could no longer ignore. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing! Just… JJ's is a little out of the way. Strange coincidence."

"Yeah. Strange, I guess." Liz said, distracted. Of course Aram had picked up on something; she had always sensed a kinship with him when it came to profiling. He had a natural aptitude for intuiting behavior that had piqued her interest at times. He smiled at her crookedly, his eyes bright with mischief.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, a smile stealing across her face.

"Looking at you like what?"

"Like you know something."

"I don't know anything, Agent Keen," he said, giving her a playful wink.

That night a knock on her door found Red on the doorstep, a bit earlier than they were used to meeting.

"Where have you been all day? I had a name I wanted to run by you but you didn't answer," Liz asked as Red took her sidestep as an invitation inside. Plastic bags rustled in his hands as he scuffed his shoes on the mat. "What have you got there?"

"To answer your first question, I was indisposed. I had a few social calls to make today, keeping up some key appearances. One of which with a man in the International District who runs one of my favorite restaurants. One of the absolute best counterfeiters I have ever met and incidentally the maker of the finest hot and sour soup you will eat on this continent. I thought I might find you before you ate dinner so we could both benefit from his veritable culinary super powers."

"Do you ever get food from people who aren't committing crimes? Or does it just taste better that way?" Liz said, checking the receipt on the outside of the bag for an address. No information just a note: _For Red. Good luck. _Her fingers struggled under the sharp rim on the rigid plastic to-go container and she nodded Red to the direction of her bowls and spoons.

It was a nice feeling to have him in her house; since Tom left no one else had really been by. It was understandable. Everyone she knew worked at The Bureau, and none of them wanted to bother her; they were too clipped and unobtrusive for that. She was glad that Red wasn't afraid of the mess that her life had become, as implicit as he had been in it. She remembered a time when she blamed him, used him as a sort of device in the story she told herself: he was the antagonist, the chaotic evil. But the more she got to know him, the more she felt a kinship. He too was damaged and distrustful. Over and over he had told her how she deserved to find love again, that she was worthy of a better life. He was so earnest when he spoke of his care for her that it became impossible to ignore; whatever his motive, he had proved time and time again that his loyalty and devotion was hers almost exclusively.

"If you'll forgive me, Lizzie, I came by today with an agenda. I hope that you'll indulge me," he said.

She rolled her eyes, but sat down next to him at her little bar top.

"I should have known that if you were plying me with food that you had an ulterior motive."

"It's not entirely selfish of me; I'm worried about your current situation."

"What situation?"

"I'm worried that you are still marinating in the life you shared with Tom. I worry about you spending every night in this apartment that you shared with him, having to be addressed by his last name. I just want to make sure that you are alright… and that you realize that those conditions can be altered."

For a moment she was silent, processing the fact that Red cared at all about her personal circumstances when it came to Tom after all the warnings he had given her that she had subsequently and near-fatally ignored. But she should have known that he would still care, of course. She contemplated his concerns as she freed the steam from her soup, stirring it for fear it would burn her.

"I think part of me wants to stay here because I haven't figured out yet what happened here," she said, gesturing to the walls around her. "Even with all the memories, it's like my mind still needs physical access to it in order to understand… you know?"

"Although my instincts were different when I found myself in a similar situation, I understand that need. To have a touchstone. But I worry what it does to you, staying here alone."

"Well, not all of us have a Dembe to tuck us in at night," she said, smiling.

"I suppose not, but you could, if you wanted."

"I think Dembe would have to start by talking to me, for one," she said, joking.

"Don't take it personally," he said, shaking his head faintly. "Although he has a vibrant vocabulary he is not a frivolous conversationalist, even with me, I'm afraid. However I wasn't referring to Dembe. I'm simply letting you know that if you were to feel uncomfortable here in anyway, arrangements could be made. Both for a change of venue and the addition of some added companionship."

"Would that involve doing business with another one of your less-than-reputable friends?"

Red gave her a strange look, one she had never seen before. He looked as though he was experiencing an indulgent frustration with her – the way a person patiently explains checkers to a distracted child.

"I'm fine, Red. But if that ever changes you will be the first person I call."

He nodded, smiling with his lips but his eyes seemed pinched. For a short while they ate in companionable silence, their spoons clinking and scraping against their bowls in a haphazard melody.

"You mentioned me keeping my last name," she said, seeing his face turn toward her from the corner of her eye. "But, it wasn't even _his_ last name. Even what I _may_ have seen of his humanity didn't have anything to do with that name. But I'm stuck with it."

Red reached across the short distance between them to place his hand on her knee, warm but emphatic.

"Lizzie, you are not stuck anywhere. Life, all of it, the things that we consider our own personal facts are moveable. Our families, our jobs, our politics, our health… they can all be taken away, found to be lies we have told ourselves. They can all be abandoned, used, changed, and buried to meet our own ends if we no longer find value in them. There is no longer value to your marriage to that man. Forcing yourself to honor it out of convenience would be a mistake. It will fester like a splinter if you let it."

She realized as she let his words hover around her, sink into her skin, that she truly had no one left. She could turn to those she worked with if she really needed to, but none of them had asked her how she was doing. None of them hesitated when calling her by her married name – they cared but they did not understand. Not the way he did.

"I wasn't exactly a fan of my maiden name either. It wasn't the same as Sam's. I could use his but it feels wrong somehow to only do it after he died."

"I've always liked my last name," Red said, squinting wistfully. Liz offered him a smile and gathered their bowls, carrying them to the kitchen.

"You could have it, if you'd like," he said, addressing her back and she turned toward the sink. He sounded a bit overwrought, like there was something in his throat.

"Have what?" she asked casually, fully expecting him to be talking about the leftovers.

"My last name," he said. It was just like him to make her laugh after such serious conversation. She loved that about him. She laughed, grateful for the opportunity.

"Yeah I'm sure that wouldn't raise any red flags at the state department."

"By now Lizzie, you should know that the information they receive can be manipulated," he said, and again she sensed a terseness in his tone although he was smiling in that same, strained way. She thought that maybe, this time, she understood his frustration. She knew that she could be withholding when it came to emotion, and he had offered her so much with nothing in return. She walked toward him, watched him turn toward her in his chair. Within a few steps she could smell his skin, familiar to her only by their infrequent embraces, hugs of greeting and goodbye. Even more infrequent kisses on the cheek. He smelled like rain, cedar, salt air.

"I appreciate that you are concerned about me, I really am," she said. "And I realize that I have not acknowledged that, maybe ever. But I truly am thankful for it. I know I haven't exactly let you help me but I think I have a bit of a mental block about that. But be patient with me."

She put her arms around him, hugging him the way they had done before only briefly. She felt his heart thrumming under his waistcoat, the heat from his neck warming her cheek pleasantly. She'd stay like that forever if he'd let her.

"It isn't simple concern that I feel for you, I think you know that." His eyes danced across her face. He looked desperate, pleading in an odd way for her to understand something that he couldn't put into words.

"You've never really said it outright. You've nearly died for me, but I don't know why."

"At first it was… prescribed. I cared about you due to your value in a manner of speaking. But-…"

Uncharacteristically he grew silent in the middle of his sentence, clearly unsure of how to proceed. She could see his breathing become ragged with emotion, his eyes far away.

"To me, you are… everything, Lizzie. And it was effortless, it is like breathing to care for you. You are the first person I have genuinely known in years. You understood me. Even in your anger you showed me compassion, even when you didn't understand. You've been my second chance, my companion, my friend… and I owe you consistency. I owe you a home."

She felt herself begin to choke up in tears, but didn't let them fall. She hadn't had a true home, in a physical sense, in so long. Not one that was real.

"I have that with you," she said, allowing herself to bare her emotions to him in kind. "I don't know how to put it as eloquently as you did it… but that's how I feel. Like I'm at home around you."

Instead of tears, she felt something else welling up inside her. She wasn't sure if it was a need to comfort herself or to comfort him, but it was clear. There was a nervousness between them that hadn't been there before, a sort of urgency. She felt his breathing become ragged under her chest, his pulse racing in his neck. She placed a kiss to his jaw, tentative but leading. At first it felt like simple affection, but like the rest of the little milestones in their relationship, it also felt a bit like falling. Involuntary. Exciting. All at once she felt the roughness of his calloused hands caressing her cheeks, cradling her neck. His mouth was still hot, still pleasantly acidic and his lips were soft under hers. The tiny, satisfied little moan that escaped her chest startled her a little bit as he put his hands around her waist. To her dismay, she felt him use his grip to push her away only slightly.

"I'm trying to tell you that I love you Elizabeth."

And it was like flipping a switch not like lighting up a room, it was much more subtle than that, more like fitting the last piece of a puzzle into place. It made sense. And it had been there all along. It had been there in her heart too.

"I think …" she started, letting her lips move before the thought had fully formed. "I think I've loved you too. I think it happened without me knowing."

He smiled, relaxed only incrementally. He reached toward her face, running his thumb over her skin, letting his fingers rest in her hair. She leaned in to kiss him again but he held her still.

"It's more than that," he said. His voice dropped to a low whisper, his same gravelly tone but hypnotically quiet. "We are both in need of permanence, consistency. I think we've found that with each other."

"I didn't really think that was a part of your life, permanence… everything is expendable remember," she said.

"You will never be expendable to me. And you have planted your roots deep enough in my life that I could not extricate you from it even if I wanted to. Given that I can't see myself without you, and that being a rather complicated position for you, I'm offering you my protection," he said, his lower lip quivering just slightly. "I have put you in danger and I'm afraid that's now becoming a fact of your life. But I'm offering my promise to love you and protect you in return."

"What do you mean by offering? This sounds like you're making some sort of proposition."

"Generally it's referred to as a proposal," he said standing up from his bar stool, placing a hand on his knee to steady himself. To kneel. In his hands, shaking slightly, was a velveteen box.

"What are you doing," she said in disbelief, her words barely audible with shock.

"I'm asking you to marry me Lizzie," he said, his eyes glistening.

"Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Have you forgotten what it is we do, how we know each other, the FBI?"

He placed the box on the counter, getting up to level his eyes with hers.

"The task force just may benefit from having an agent in their midst who is not obligated by law to testify against me should the time come."

"Spousal privilege? You think that's enough for them?" Her voice was becoming strained with shocked panic.

"No, I don't. The paperwork won't have to cross their desk if we don't want it to. Not until it's necessary."

"Necessary?" she asked, still breathless.

"Should I die, which could happen at any time regardless of any arrangement, you would be given sole power to carry out my wishes, to communicate and make decisions on my behalf. I wouldn't trust many others."

"Is this about covering your ass?" she asked, getting lost in his clinical explanation.

"Not in the least. If that were the case I'd marry Dembe; I'll remind you that it's legal in this state. It would allow me to protect you Lizzie. There are people in this world who mean you harm, you know that by now after the events of these past couple of years. If we are married, it would allow me similar access to you should you become hurt or incapacitated. But more than all of that, more than any of this clinical bullshit it would mean that we have each other. Unconditionally. Forever."

"We have each other now."

"Yes. We do," he said. "But you could call me old fashioned Lizzie. I know what I want, and as someone who is in near constant danger I know better than to wait. Life is to be savored, grasped, cherished… I want that with you. I love you. With every part of who I am. The criminal in me loves the way that your mind works, the way that you know me better than I do, your ability to serve as my moral compass reminding me what it's like to care about people again. The man in me loves your devotion, your heart, the tenacity you offer to those for whom you care."

Her mind worked overtime to take in everything that was happening, every word that he spoke. It was now her pulse pounding, her breathing uneven. What got through to her didn't need to be communicated in words. She was loved. Adored by a man with the ability to turn the world upside down if he wanted to, but where she was concerned he seemed only to want to care for her. He saw her, valued her for the person she had become, for what was left of Elizabeth Keen that she had forged from fire and heartache. She felt that he saw in her the one thing that was always the same, the bit of her that was still constant from the day she was born. He saw her heart. And he still wanted her.

"Show it to me," she said, letting her eyes wander to the box on the counter. He reached for it and placed it in her hand for her to open. Inside there were two rings, both wedged in tiny silken, pillowed slits. The first was a simple band, gleaming white gold. Only in the right light could you see the many tiny in-set diamonds glinting from their settings. The other needed no such light to be spectacular. It was a pear shaped solitaire; absolutely stunning, not necessarily in size, but in its undeniable sparkle.

"You'll have occasion to wear both… or either… as you see fit. It's entirely up to you," he said.

In context, he meant the ring; but in reality he clearly knew that everything was hanging in the balance. The decision was in her hands. The course of the rest of their lives was in the air around them.

"I'll marry you," she said. "I don't know what it will mean, but I trust you. And I love you."

She almost didn't get the words out before he gathered her into his arms. She grasped the cloth of his shirt in her hands, pulling him tight against her. His lips were warm on her neck, his breath ghosting over her ear as he whispered words of gratitude and love and devotion. She couldn't help but smile, search for his lips with hers. She let him, the traditional man that he was, place the pear-shaped diamond on her finger. But just for a moment before putting it back – wearing it now would force some questions that she wasn't sure how to answer just yet. She'd do it on her terms.

"When?" she asked, breathless and excited.

"Whenever you want," he said.

"Surprise me," she said.

"What do you mean, surprise you? Don't you want to-…"

"Just surprise me. That's all I want. You're clearly good at that."


End file.
